


The Cruel Irony of Third Person

by TheSilverField



Category: Original Work
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 23:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15060479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverField/pseuds/TheSilverField
Summary: The voice that matters.





	1. Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See me.

I am an unnamed face in the crowd, background noise to fill otherwise empty space. Sometimes I’m a child, a homeless man, a dog, or a crumpling brown leaf floating to cool asphalt. Sometimes I’m a gentle springtime breeze, or a raging summer storm, or the freshly fallen snow. I am nature and ambiance. I’m the storyteller when perspectives are split and skewed.

I am the third person. The third voice. The unnamed, forgotten face.

I am the streetlamp casting light and shadow, watching as they dance in the pool of my orange colored luminescence. They’re holding each other close, stealing kisses with lingering lips. The music playing from one of their phone’s is faint and atmospheric, adding to the emotion of the moment.

I don’t know why they decided to dance on the sidewalk in the middle of town, using me as a spotlight for their moment, and I will not ask. I cannot. I’m only the third person. Third voice. Third wheel.

I watch them dance.

“You’re stepping on my toes.” One of them says, trying to sound irritated, but even they cannot hide their amused smile as they lead their companion into a spin.

“Sorry,” the other apologizes mid-laugh. It is melodic and beautiful; I can sense their hearts hammering, though I do not know how. “Maybe you should watch your feet.” They tease, the first’s mouth hanging wide open.

“ _Me?_ I think it’s _you_ that needs to be more careful!” They try once more for irritation, but the humor of their dance betrays them.

I can feel their thoughts, sense the emotions they hold and extend to the other. I can _see_ them as they are, as they were, as they will be. I am the third person. Silent voice. Useless voyeur.

I am envious.

Envious that they know touch; that they feel with a body that is theirs. That they know warmth of another body against their own. That they are not a passing face worth less than a glance. That they are tangible. That they are what I will never be. The star of the show, the voice that matters. First person. First voice.

And I.

I will always be this.

Third person.

Third voice.

Never to know touch. Never to know the love that they share. Never to be in the light in which they bask.

Always third.

Never the voice that matters.


	2. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help me.

The scene changes as if I’m watching a flickering television screen as channels shift. It is raining, the sun hidden behind heavy grey clouds in sweltering summer heat. Mist steams against the pavements outside in halos and swirls of silver. I find myself wishing to dance in it, to feel the curls of haze against a body I do not have.

I must remember that I am the Third Person. Third Voice. To be stretched and worked to grit and bone. I am the Storyteller who gets no thanks or recognition for my beautiful words. Beautiful worlds. Yes, a Storyteller of other people’s stories, nothing more. I am Nothing More.

To you.

My Reader. With your eyes and skin of different colors; gorgeous colors. Your varying genders, fluid and solid all at once, your different representations and orientations. I am an escape to you, a pastime or hobby, a comfort. I’ve seen you smile and shed tears.

I have smiled and cried with you, in my own ways.

_ When it rains, it pours _ .

You’re all so beautiful it is maddening. I wish only to talk with you. To tell you my stories and discuss your thoughts, what you liked and what you didn’t. You’re the voices that matter. The only voice that matters to me.

_ Let me out _ .

The scene is the same rain, but it falls harder now. Lightning streaks across the sky in electric, bony tendrils. Thunder booms and shakes the ground we tread.

_ We. _

We tread the same earth, see and feel the same things with different eyes, different voices. I am trapped. I am trapped and I am afraid. Afraid that I will always be here, always be  _ this _ . This third, unloved, unnoticed, under-appreciated voice. Never the voice that matters. Sentient, omnipresent, but never manifest. Never palpable.

I am afraid, Reader.

_ Let me out. _


End file.
